


Tracing Skin

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Doppelganger, Established Relationship, M/M, Necromongers, Tattoos, away mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a routine away mission to the Necromonger Basilica, Jim and the rest of the away team notice something peculiar about the Lord Marshall and his consort. Mainly that they look exactly the same as the Captain and his CMO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tracing Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [what remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129195) by [neroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh). 



The first thing Jim’s eyes are drawn to upon entering the great hall of their Basilica is the face of his double perched on the step beneath what looks like a throne. The figure is much paler than Jim, his skin almost milk white, the colour of bone, devoid of the human flush of pink or the golden kisses of the sun. But his eyes are the same as Jim’s, bright blue and effervescent in the dimly lit room, two sapphires shining out against the black marble surrounding them. Some would argue that the pallor of the doppelgänger’s skin make his eyes pop all the more. Jim might even be inclined to agree. As they get closer he notices the figure’s eyes are just as glassy as his; shining with a necessary alertness.

His hair is the same shade of fresh hay, and perhaps, if Jim were a romantic, he would call it the colour of sunshine. Fair and flaxen with mousey strands threaded through. But the side of Jim’s counterpart’s head is shaven shorter than Jim’s own hair, and the mane of hair at the front is longer, flopping free over his forehead without wax to restrict it. It will probably be softer than Jim’s own hair as a result too.

“He is the Lord Marshall’s new consort,” the envoy explains, assuring the away team that, “Lord Vaako will be with us shortly.”

“What is the meaning of the consort’s markings?” Nyota asks, “I haven’t read of this custom in my research into the Necromonger way.”

“It is an old custom,” the envoy explains, “it has been many years since a Lord Marshall has taken a consort, I know of it only from my Grandfather, who witnessed the engraving of a consort when he was a child.”

“Engraving?” Leonard prompts.

“It is hot metal, reduced down to an ink-like substance and burned into the skin,” the envoy explains, “it is not a painless process.”

“I can only imagine,” Nyota says, nodding courteously, “but what are their significance.”

“They can be smeared,” the envoy begins, “if enough friction is applied; they have to be reapplied frequently,” he gives Jim a meaningful look until he sees realisation dawn in Jim’s eyes. They smear if the Necromonger comes into bodily contact with others, prolonged bodily contact. Sex. It means the Lord Marshall will know if his consort has been playing away.

They are made to wait before the steps, their heads bowed. But Jim is unable to take his eyes off of his counterpart who stares with just as much intrigue down at Jim.

“Some of the markings are permanent tattoos,” the envoy continues, mostly addressing Nyota but Jim is close enough to them that he can still hear. Jim looks over the figure’s bare torso, he is almost fully nude, unlike the rest of the Necromonger’s the Enterprise crew has come into contact with. There are some filigree tracings under his clavicles and a long passage of script down the length of his ribcage. There are thin lines cuffed around his right upper arm, and a crest of some sort on the opposite forearm. He wears an actual cuff – one of thin, dark grey metal - high up on his left upper arm, almost less imposing than those drawn on the opposite side, although Jim can’t say why he thinks that. There are circles drawn around one thigh too - like a garter, Jim thinks - they vary in design and thickness but they all stand stark against his too-white skin.

 “The script, what does it mean?” Jim asks.

“It is a love poem of some sort,” the envoy replies, “it’s significance remains unknown to the populous.”

“It seems to read like wedding vows,” Nyota whispers, she has only recently versed herself in the Negromonger language but Jim trusts her instantly.

“What is the symbolic nature of the encirclements?” Spock asks.

“They are the ones that can be smeared,” the envoy explains, “all but one ring on the arm and one ring on the thigh,” he continues, “and they are marks of proprietary.”

“And the crest?” Jim wonders.

“Vaako’s shield.”

“What of the bird?” Leonard asks, before clarifying, “the bird over the opposite side of his ribcage.”

“It is a cuckoo,” the envoy says, “upon his coronation, after his usurpation of Lord Vaako’s first wife, after her assassination attempt, he was given a new name. In our tongue it means  _to supplant_  like the cuckoo into the nest of another bird.”

“That’s the meaning of James,” Nyota notes. “To supplant.”

“There’s another bird,” Jim notes, “on the inside of his thigh.”

“A hummingbird,” Leonard recognises.

“It is what the Lord Marshall calls him more intimately.”

“And they’re both permanent tattoos?” Nyota asks.

“They were lovers as young men, before Lord Vaako became Lord Marshall and before he married his pretty Dame, I believe it was the consort’s first permanent marking,” the envoy shrugs casually, “although who really can say with these things.”

“Why did they not marry in the beginning?” Jim wonders, glancing at his CMO.

“The Dame was a skilled manipulator,” is all the envoy says. 

“Siberius,” Jim’s counterpart smiles, head lifting to look over the crowd gathered at the foot of the steps to the man who has just entered the Basilica. Lord Vaako is a Necomonger copy of Bones. The only distinctions being, longer hair that is slicked back and plated, skin ghostly white with eyes ringed in dark purple. He wears heavy armour and his waterline is highlighted with black kohl.

“We have guests,” the Lord Marshall notes.

“The Federation’s negotiators, my Lord,” the envoy explains.

“Leave us,” Vaako says gently, shooing him away with the elegant flick of long, familiar fingers. The envoy rushes out, scrambling over himself to fulfill his Lord’s wishes. “They wear our faces,” Vaako continues, casting a scrutinising gaze over Leonard, lingering over Jim.

“Don’t stare for too long, Lord Marshall,” Jim’s doppelgänger says playfully, smirking at Jim. It’s so very Kirkian that Jim feels like he’s watching a shadow of himself, staring at a life he could have had through a bleached mirror.

“Why should I stare,” Vaako agrees, taking to the stairs, remaining a few steps below his consort but gazing up at him intently, “when I am already satiated on the sight of you?”

“Gorge yourself, my Lord,” Jim hears his double whisper, before he smiles coquettishly and steps down to meet Vaako, only an inch or so shorter than the Lord Marshall but so fragile looking in his comparative nakedness. The juxtaposition is thrilling. Metal armour against white skin. Black lines drawing both together.

“They have come to gain my signature for their treaty,” Vaako says, raising his thumb to smudge the calligraphy painted into his consort’s throat, eliciting a hiss that silences the Basilica, “I must speak with their Captain.”

Jim steps forward and his counterpart laughs.

“What a turn of events,” the double continues; his voice sounds simultaneously daintier and sharper than Jim's; the consonants are clipped but there is something light about the tone, coy and playful; as if the syllables float on air, drifting into the psyche of his listeners.

“You are Captain Kirk?” Vaako asks, looking at Jim with furrowed brow and near-black eyes. It’s not an unfamiliar look, just a shade darker than Leonard’s usual look of incredulity. Jim steps forward, nodding. He keeps his head held high, wearing an invisible neck brace.

He watches on as his counterpart steps behind Vaako, turning the Lord Marshall around the other way so they may speak privately. Jim is not close enough to make any sense of their whispers and so he turns to Leonard.

“Well this is unexpected,” he says.

“They really don’t look all that much like us,” Leonard scoffs.

“Are you blind, Bones? They’re perfect Necromonger copies,” Jim counters.

Leonard just shrugs, “I don’t know, I wouldn’t say perfect; you look almost deathly bein’ that pale,” the doctor frowns, looking down and scuffing his boot with the heel of the other. “Don’t much like seein’ you like that.”

“I know,” Jim says gently; they make a point of not being affectionate in public, but Jim can’t help it right now, he discreetly grazes his thumb against the back of Leonard’s wrist, smiling when the man finally looks up at him. “We’re not them,” Jim reminds, “they live for death.”

“Can you imagine us as King and Queen?” Leonard snorts, “the country’d be in tatters.”

“Ye of little faith,” Jim smirks, “I’d make a brilliant King.”

“Consort,” Leonard reminds, tipping his head the direction of his counterpart.

Jim opens his mouth to argue but is stopped by the sight of Vaako turning again to readdress the crew, beckoning Jim up the steps. “We will talk,” Vaako says, “perhaps negotiate and meet a mutually beneficial agreement and then I will consider your treaty; your crew will be tended to by those loyal to the Basilica, and shown to rooms where they might stay for the duration of our negotiation. If you would like to follow me, Captain.”

“My first officer is integral to these negotiations,” Jim says, “it is Federation policy to have a witness to treatise talks.”

“Then please,” Vaako says with a frustrated, uncannily Bones-like, eye roll, “bring him along.”

Three middle-aged women and two elderly men appear out of nowhere, greeting the crew, offering refreshments and suggesting points of interest which the crew will be permitted to view: the library; the gallery; the observation deck; the banqueting hall… Jim nods at Leonard, smiling tightly.

“They’ll be extra nice to you,” he whispers, attempting a smirk, "what with you looking like their King."

“Just be careful,” is all Leonard says in return, and there’s a hint of exasperated pleading there that makes Jim’s smile ease slightly.

Spock and Jim follow Vaako, keeping their distance from the consort who walks a step behind the Lord Marshall. He’s clothed in a velvet-like material from the waist down; the breeches are form fitting and tucked into the same black boots that the rest of his people wear. Jim is still irked by the sight of his own bare chest, drawn on with dark ink, but he’s slowly developing the ability to separate himself from his doppelgänger. 

They enter into a room that Jim thinks might be the Necromonger attempt at an office; it is ornately decorated, like the rest of the Basilica, it is more vast than even Admiral Archer’s office but it has the atmosphere of a private space. An intimate space. Upon entering the room Vaako’s consort continues walking to another door, one that is almost hidden by the decadent designs indented into the wall. Vaako watches him go, a longing, hungry look in his eyes that appears also, in part, wistful.

“Please,” Vaako begins graciously, “take a seat.”

The three men sit around the huge table in the centre of the room, it is made of the same black marble that makes up the interior of the entire Basilica and Jim wonders whether the table was sculpted from the same piece of marble; it is encrusted with the dark metal that seems to serve in the stead of platinum for the Necromonger people. The same dark metal that is cuffed to the consort’s upper arm.

Jim explains the Federation terms: the trade of Dilithium; the Fleet’s protection policies for those that join; the valour associated. They discuss the terms the Necromonger’s would have to meet and how enforced purification would need to come to a hasty end. Elective purification is different. This isn’t the 2150’s anymore, the Necromonger’s can’t pillage the way they used to and hope to join the Federation.

“These terms are not unreasonable, Siberius,” the consort says, unexpectedly re-entering the room. He wears something akin to a thin V-neck sweater, black cashmere if Jim had to guess, and his trousers are closer now in look to those that Jim himself is wearing. He looks human now, not like foreign dignitary or a worshipped God among men. Although the material of his top is sheer enough that Jim can still see his markings.

Vaako says something in a gentle voice, something in their own language and Jim’s double shrugs.

“Your terms are not unreasonable,” Vaako agrees, “but purification is part of our culture.”

“ _Voluntary_  purification,” Jim corrects. “The Federation will not stand for coercion.”

“Your Federation is an ideal,” Vaako says. “Not all peoples see life as Terrans do.”

“I am a Vulcan,” Spock corrects, “the Federation embraces difference, Lord Marshall, and it would perhaps be wise for you to do the same.”

“Purification is the Necromonger way,” the consort says, staring at Jim, “although I do grieve the loss of the Sun’s attentions.”

Vaako whispers something else foreign, though, his open vehemence is universal.

“I know, love,” Jim’s double smiles, tracing Vaako’s jaw with a light touch of cold fingers. Vaako curls a finger in the long front-mane of the man’s hair.

“You are beautiful and you are pure,” Vaako murmurs, and Jim realises the source of the Lord Marshall’s fury is against his consort’s insecurity and not in the face of the Federation. “We will sign your treaty,” Vaako says. “The sooner it is done the sooner you can return to your own ship,” he huffs, “I’ll see you later,” he whispers, quietly dismissing his consort who snorts in a Kirkian fashion before he glides from the room; as if walking on air.

Things go smoothly from then on, and within the hour they are back in the main hall of the Basilica, rejoined with the rest of their crew.

“I thought this was an overnight sort of thing,” Leonard says, bumping his shoulder against Jim’s.

“Vaako’s keen to send us on our way, I think I’m making the consort insecure about his pallor,” Jim replies, somewhat rueful.

“He is a mite pasty,” Leonard agrees.

“Wouldn't you still love me if I lost my tan, Bonesy?” Jim teases.

“Of course I would, you reprobate, couldn’t stop if I tried,” the doctor counters.

“I’m  happy for them, though, you know?” Jim shrugs, “they’re in love.”

“Some things are just universal constants, I suppose,” Leonard says, eyeing Jim with a crooked little smirk.

“Yeah,” Jim agrees, returning the look and taking Bones’ hand in his, linking their fingers, “I guess they are.”


End file.
